Fourteen Days
by MarieQuiteContrarie
Summary: Shaw Gold and Lacey French have carried on a casual, no-strings affair for months, until a fateful accident places Lacey in Gold's care for fourteen days. Head-over-heels in love with the untamed beauty, Gold wants Lacey to see that she is so much more than a good time. Can he win her heart and turn fourteen days into forever?
1. Days One-Four

Lacey French sits gingerly on the edge of the hospital bed, glaring at her favorite blue stilettos. Whale already signed her discharge papers with a smarmy smile, and all that's left to do is finish dressing and go. The trek home from Storybrooke Memorial is going to hurt like hell, but these are the only shoes she's got. Her only other possessions—a black mesh handbag with a roll of damp dollar bills and her favorite tube of lipstick—sit in a plastic bin at her feet.

If Ariel and Ruby weren't covering her shifts, she'd ask one of them to run to her apartment for some flats and give her a lift home. But there's no sense in dwelling on ifs.

She toes on a shoe and the heel gives out, snapping in half.

 _Shit. Barefoot it is_.

Lacey shrugs; this won't be the first time she's walked without shoes. November nights in northern Main are cold, but at least it's not snowing.

Footsteps echo on the floor outside her room, and Lacey swings her legs back into bed. The quick motion makes her dizzy, but maybe it'll buy her a little more time. Whale's been panting after her for a while, and maybe she can sweet talk her way into another night's stay.

"Hey, lass." It's not the sleazy doctor, but Mr. Gold, rapping on the half-open door.

Morning sunlight streams the windows, illuminating the smile on his annoyingly handsome face. There's a thin white box tucked under his arm and a bouquet of flowers clutched in his hand.

"What are you doing here?" Lacey fixes her gaze on the Spanish soap opera on TV and crosses her arms over her chest. She can't understand a word they're saying, but that hardly matters; she wants Gold to feel as unwelcome as she does uneasy.

He doesn't take the hint.

Gold sets down the flowers—brilliant orange Tiger Lilies—and holds out the box. Raspberry dark chocolate creams; she recognizes the flashy silver label from the fancy candy store on the other side of town. She gives the box a nasty scowl. How dare he show up unannounced and be nice?

"I'm here to check on the patient," he says, leaning forward to touch the bruise on her forehead.

"It was an overnight for observation. And I can take care of myself," she says, ducking her head. The warm, calloused pad of his thumb makes contact with her skin, his tender touch overwhelming her with the urge to cry. A traitorous tear squeezes out before she can stop it and splatters on the crumpled bedsheet.

xoxo

Gold pretends not to notice Lacey's tears.

Relief doesn't begin to describe his feelings at seeing her awake and snarling at him. When he'd gotten the call from Sheriff Swan, it had taken all his restraint not to rush to the hospital to see her, but Lacey wouldn't have tolerated such an obvious display. Instead he'd called the nurses' station on her floor every hour demanding status updates. Now her eyes are snapping with indignant fire and he wants to kiss the sneer off that smart mouth of hers.

"You must think I'm frickin' stupid, Gold," she says, flipping her cold gaze between him and the gifts.

 _Oh, yes, she was going to be just fine_. Still, Gold chooses his next words with caution. "Stupid? You? Quite the contrary." He shakes his head. "I know you to be one of the most clever women of my acquaintance."

She narrows her gaze. " _One_ of the most clever?"

"I deducted a few points after you stole my car last night," he says.

"Borrowed," she mutters, boring holes into the white box in her hands.

" _Borrowed?_ " He crosses his arms. "Oh, I see. Is that what they call it when you filch the keys from a man's nightstand?"

"I had someplace to be."

"So you leave my bed in the middle of the night without a single word?" he asks.

"We're not exclusive, Gold. That was never the arrangement."

"Tell that to my Cadillac." He retrieves her short leather jacket from a peg on the wall, grateful for an excuse to busy his shaking hands.

The comment hits its target. Lacey sees him as nothing more than an outlet for sexual release; he's a warm body on a frigid night and maybe, if he's lucky, the source of a square meal and an intelligent conversation. For the past four months, she'd offered him her body, but not her heart. But when it comes to Lacey French, Gold is nothing if not selfish.

He wants it all, and he's finally finagled a way to get it.

"Come on, Lead Foot. Get dressed. We have a new arrangement now."

"What do you mean?" She leans back against the pillows and closes her eyes.

"They've released you into my care."

She jerks up, her back ramrod straight. "Who has?"

"The hospital staff." He snorts and picks up her broken high heel. "You have a concussion, Lacey. Did you think they'd let you waltz out of here on these ridiculous excuses for shoes?"

"Like hell. I'm going home."

"You no longer have a home."

"Bastard," she says, clenching her teeth. Then in a tiny voice she asks, "You evicted me?"

"No, lass." A frisson of fear courses through him and he skims the hospital chart at the foot of the bed, looking for symptoms of memory loss. "You crashed the car into your apartment building, remember?"

"That part's a little fuzzy," she says, rubbing at the tender spot on her crown. "And don't call me that."

"Lass," he repeats, drawing the word out in his rough brogue. Whenever he's worried about her—which is often—he falls back into teasing. As long as she holds up her end of the bickering, he knows she's ok.

His Lacey loathes sympathy.

"I want a room at Granny's," she says.

"All occupied by the rest of the tenants you evicted." He points his cane at her. "Fortunately, no one else was injured."

"What about the hotel across…"

"Full."

* * *

The truth comes out, the real reason why he's here. Lacey curls her hands into the cold metal bedrails. Gold doesn't give a crap about her; he's here to taunt and cast blame.

"Son of a bitch," she says. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"Maybe a little." He shrugs.

"So what's the deal?" she asks, releasing her grip on the bedrails and the situation. Her head is still throbbing and she's too tired to think anymore.

"I spoke with Sheriff Swan. I've agreed not to press charges and to handle all the liabilities and costs incurred by _my_ tenants and _my_ building and _my_ car. In exchange, you agree to fourteen days of community service of my choice," he says.

"Two weeks of free labor?" Stunned, she jerks to her feet. The motion is too sudden and she rests her hips against the bed like a weakling. "Why fourteen? And why the hell can't you hire help like everybody else?"

"It's a nice number," he says, flashing a crooked smile that cracks the rampart around her angry heart. "Surely you can endure a mere handful of days in my presence."

"Weekends too?"

"Shopkeepers work long hours," he says with a nod.

"Where the hell am I supposed to sleep?" she whines, her mind whirling with excuses. "That stupid cot in the workroom?"

"Oh, no." He rubs his hands together, and she shivers at the primal glint of possession in his eyes. "That's the best part, Lacey. While you work for me, you live at my house."

* * *

 ** _Day 1 – Saturday_**

So far, staying at Gold's is a total drag.

After they sprang her from the hospital, David Nolan had driven them back to the pink mansion in his animal rescue van. Lacey's nostrils flared and her stomach roiled as the freezing rain intensified the smell of wet dog wafting from the back.

"Sorry about the travel accommodations, lass," Gold said when a sodden golden retriever wedged between them and licked her cheek. "I didn't have time to rent you a limousine."

"Whatever," Lacey muttered, frowning as she brushed fur off her mini-dress.

That sloppy kiss from a wet dog had been the highlight of her long, boring day.

For hours now she's been stretched out on the four-poster in Gold's classiest guestroom, leafing through fashion magazines, chewing strawberry bubblegum, and snacking on S'mores pop tarts. He's been upstairs to check on her twice, bearing trays laden with food, coffee, pain meds, and back issues of _French Vogue_. Ordinarily a stretch of leisure time would be a thrill, but hearing the faint sounds of puttering and the clang of pots and pans in the kitchen makes her skin itch. When did Gold become so domestic? Why won't he come up here and argue with her, or flip her onto her back and ride her into the mattress till neither of them can see straight?

With a sigh, she sets aside her bottle of glittery gold nail polish and blows on the freshly applied coat. She rewinds to the other night, before she took his car keys and ran.

Remembering sours her already black mood. They'd had a good thing going for few months. Then he had to go and screw everything up. It had been as perfect an evening as Lacey ever hoped to spend—takeout lasagna from the coffee shop, Netflix, and incredible sex.

That's when it went wrong. Hovering above her, their sticky skins clinging to one another, he'd stared into her eyes and uttered words she'd never expected to hear from anyone again: _I love you._

Lies spouted in the heat of passion.

She'd lain there for a while, tense and confused, waiting until she heard a soft snore. As soon as he was asleep she bolted— grabbing his keys, firing up his Caddy, and driving away as fast as she could. Intent on her getaway, she barely remembered the drive home. Somehow her five-inch heel had wedged under the gas pedal and she'd crashed—right into her apartment building.

His fault. Every damn bit of it.

Since she can't yell at him and throw things at his head when he's not in the room, she pulls out her phone and fires off a text: " _What are you doing?"_

"Evening," he greets a minute later, balancing a supper tray in the doorway. "Couldn't respond to your message. My hands are full."

Steam wafts from two bowls, the homey aroma of chicken noodle soup perfuming the air. For the second time today, Lacey wants to cry. Homemade soup? She can't recall the last time someone cooked for her. Several times Gold had offered, but she had always declined—she ate takeout only. No eating in restaurants, no home cooking. Fewer entanglements that way.

"Don't you have to work?" she snaps. "I thought shop owners had to be in their stores, like, every day." She doesn't like the way Gold bringing her dinner in bed makes her feel.

"Yes, but I closed the shop today so I could stay here with you," he says, setting the tray down on the dresser.

"At least you're eating with me. I don't have leprosy, you know. Besides, if I'd wanted to be coddled like a baby, I would have stayed at the hospital. I hate being forced to lie in bed alone." She pouts, turning her best sultry glance on him and pats the empty side of the bed. "Why don't you come over here and sit beside me?"

Gold laughs and scoots the rocking chair in the corner closer to the bed. "Another day or two of rest, then you'll be on your feet. I promise it won't last long."

"What about…"

"I've already called Nail Fetish and told them you'd be back to work in two weeks' time," he says.

"Sounds like you thought of everything," she says petulantly, scrutinizing her manicure.

"Indeed I have," he says, folding his hands. "Now eat your soup like a good lass.

Frustrated by his rejection, she covers her hurt with a roll of her eyes. He's too much in control here in his pretty guestroom in his pretty house, and it's time to shift the balance back in her favor. Lacey wets her lower lip and lifts the spoon for a taste. It's surprisingly good, the flavors of chicken, carrots, and celery singing in her mouth. "Mmmmm," she purrs, watching Gold watch her eat.

His whiskey eyes spark with need, and she smirks and licks the length of the spoon with the flat of her tongue, her gaze holding his. Gold rewards her with a small shudder and drops his own spoon.

Glancing down at his tight, tented trousers, Lacey continues to slurp her soup, satisfied to have won this round.

* * *

 ** _Day 2 – Sunday_**

Shaw Gold hadn't been looking for love.

Hell, he hadn't been looking to become a serial pedicure patron, either.

He looks down at his neat toes, water from his ice-cold shower sluicing down his body and pooling at his feet. In the privacy of his bathroom, his frustrated groan echoes off the tile walls. _Two days down, twelve to go._ Living under the same roof with Lacey is more challenging than he could have imagined. His lips tingle in her presence; his arms ache with the need to hold her.

Oh, he's assured of his welcome between her thighs. Lacey's seductive glances and maddening touches over the past forty-eight hours have made her fleshly desires more than clear, but Gold doesn't want sex. Far more important during their time together is to prove to Lacey that she is so much more than a good time. Show her that she is safe. Make her understand that he loves her, now and always.

If only she would believe the truth.

Tonight, as they'd watched _French Kiss_ on Netflix, she ran her hand up his thigh, tracing circles along the sensitive skin near his groin. He groaned and shifted away.

"What is it with you?" she asked.

"I told you. While you're here under my roof, I refuse to take advantage of you like some kind of monster," he says, trying to be patient as he explains his reasoning yet again.

 _There's more between us than sex_ , he wants to say, but he doesn't. That will only scare her away.

Thank God tomorrow is Monday and they'll be working in the shop. At least there, in semi-public, he can trust her to behave. Maybe.

No, he wasn't looking for love. But five months ago it had found him in an unexpected place.

 _For weeks he'd been ignoring an ingrown toenail. One afternoon, his big toe throbbing inside his shoe as he walked the streets collecting rent payments, he hobbled reluctantly through the doors of a small nail salon a few blocks away from the pawnshop._

 _And who should greet him at the counter but nail technician and resident barfly Lacey French. He knew of her, of course. Storybrooke was a small town and he'd crossed paths with her at the Rabbit Hole on more than one occasion. On a rare evening, when he wanted to be surrounded by noise and people, Gold would sit at the bar and sneak looks at her over his scotch while she swilled tequila shots and hustled the local boys at pool._

 _Yet for all her late-night carousing and hard living, never once had she missed mailing her rent check on time._

 _Inside the salon, she motioned him back to her workstation, her skintight spandex mini dress highlighting every curve; her auburn hair swept to the side in a tousled ponytail that revealed a long, elegant neck._

 _Helpless to resist the graceful sway of her hips, he trailed after her like a lapdog._

 _Precious few people surprised Gold, but Lacey was a rare exception._

 _Bending over his injured toe, she eased him into a cushy leather chair then submerged his feet into a hot tub of water swirling with salt. Those small, soft hands were gentle and certain, her touch soothing as she stuffed tiny bits of cotton between the nail and the skin and dabbed ointment on the swollen digit._

 _Lacey's fingers played his feet like instruments. Like magic, her touch was not too light to tickle, but not too firm to hurt. Gold never knew a pedicure could feel this good, nor had he known what a witty and intelligent mind hid behind those haughty blue eyes._

 _"Got a wife?" she asked._

 _"No."_

 _"Girlfriend then?"_

 _"Hardly."_

 _"Impossible. Rich, successful, handsome man like you?" She laughed, the sound musical and enchanting. "It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife," she quipped._

 _"Ah, you know Austen," he said, smiling up at her as she trimmed his nails. Despite all the warning signs that this woman was trouble, his heart began to pump to a rhythm he'd long forgotten. "I wonder what else we have in common."_

How many people had bothered to take the time to talk to her?

 _"Everyone knows that line," she said, tossing her head. "You like Van Halen? You're a Hagar man, aren't you?"_

 _He stared at her. To be sure he'd_ heard _of Van Halen._

 _"We have nothing in common," she said, slapping a hot towel against his right shin. "Now why don't you close your eyes and relax, let me do my job, hmmm?"_

 _Grinning, he did as she suggested, ridiculously pleased to have riled her._

 _On the following Tuesday he returned for another pedicure and set up a standing weekly appointment._

 _Little by little, week by week, he coaxed her out of her protective shell, learning her preferences for Italian food and mint chip ice cream, fashion magazines and football games._

 _One rainy afternoon about two months into their acquaintance, when the salon was almost empty, she had offered to massage an organ a bit higher than his feet. Dumbstruck that a woman so beautiful and smart could possibly desire a middle aged cripple of below-average looks and height, he'd accepted her no-strings offer and brought her back to his home to spend the night._

Bad decision.

Given time, he'd thought they could move beyond their physical connection, that he could win her wild yet fragile heart. A gorgeous woman had asked to sleep with him; all he had to do was make her fall in love with him. Now, after five months of seeing her, he knew he had grossly misjudged the situation. As determined as he was to court her, she was determined to refuse his overtures.

Securing her agreement to accept his community service bargain had been easier than he'd expected, and a flicker of light illuminated his dark world. Too late, it occurred to him that she was working him over like a pool table, making his mission to woo her as difficult as possible. Would she ever accept his feelings as real and confront her own?

Until she did, he refused to make love to her, and she was not happy about being shut down.

Tonight, before he'd come upstairs to retire, she had taunted him for spurning her advances, calling him Grandpa Gold. Stung by her coldness, he'd risen from the loveseat and handed her the remote.

"Good night, Lacey," he said, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

"Think of me when you touch yourself tonight," she whispered, surprising him by grabbing his hand and crushing it against her supple breast. "I'll be thinking of you."

Once he had gained the staircase he released a needy shudder, turning away from the den as she buried her hand between her velvet thighs.

* * *

 ** _Day 3 – Monday_**

Lacey never rises before noon, and the chipper show tune Gold is whistling as he moves around the kitchen grates on her nerves. There's nothing beautiful about mornings—no matter what the damn song says.

Slouched at the breakfast bar, she takes sulky sips of coffee as he slides over-easy eggs and crispy bacon onto two plates. She should offer to wash dishes or slice some fruit, but she's still pissed at him for waking her up so friggin' early.

An hour ago he'd marched into her room and thrown open the curtains before whipping the covers back and dragging her toward the bathroom. As steam from the hot shower rose around them, Lacey dropped her robe and crooked a finger at him with a lazy smile. "You're welcome to join me in here, Gold. Plenty of space."

Recalling his panicked face, his mouth slack as he ogled her naked chest, she smiles. She never saw a man turn tail and run quite that fast.

Now that she's his guest/prisoner for the next several days, she's torn between demonstrating her value and behaving like a sloth. Either way, she'll evoke a response. That's what she loves about being with Gold. He _sees_ her. Tomorrow she'll get up first and make waffles. Maybe.

While he cleans the breakfast dishes, she slips into the hallway to glance at herself in the mirror, her face flushing with pleasure at the sophisticated beauty reflected there. She loves the new deep purple silk blouse and black leather pencil skirt she's wearing.

Yesterday Gold had his property manager Dove deliver some clothes and boxes of shoes, claiming they were from her apartment. The sneak (Gold or Dove, she wasn't sure) had removed the tags and sussed out some of her favorite pieces to make her believe the entire load of couture was actually from her closet. But Lacey has only ever dreamed of having material this fine next to her skin, and the hemlines are a dead giveaway. All the skirts are a couple of inches longer than she prefers—a nod to the gentleman in Gold—but she's not going to argue with a closetful of stunning new clothes free of charge.

She is, however, going to gripe about compulsory exercise.

"How much farther is it?" she complains as they walk to the pawnshop.

Gold has been droning on about rules and expectations. No drinking at work, no hustling the customers…blah, blah, blah. Her new heels are pinching her toes and she's a bit out of breath from the exertion.

"We'll be there soon," he says.

"We've been walking for at least fifteen minutes." She sparks a cigarette and Gold pinches the light between thumb and forefinger.

"Smoking is bad for young lungs, lass," he says, flicking a bit of ash off his long fingers.

"This is ridiculous," she says, stuffing the pack of Marlboro Lights into her blouse when he tries to snatch them. "I'm outta here."

"You're welcome to spend the remainder of our time together in the illustrious town jail," he says with a careless shrug. "Care to share a toilet in a community cell while Storybrooke's finest look on?"

Lacey rolls her eyes, but decides against calling Gold's bluff. She detests cigarettes, anyway. Their allure is all about appearances. "Slave driver," she mutters, handing over her pack and lighter.

* * *

 ** _Day 4 – Tuesday_**

Lacey surveys the front of Gold's tidy shop with a smile, the antiques, jewelry, and leather-bound books attractively displayed in the sparkling cases after hours of elbow grease yesterday. She shifts an antique typewriter to the back counter, choking on the plume of dust it kicks up. Ok, so there's still some cleaning to do. The workroom through the curtain is littered with dust bunnies and the shelves sag under the weight of unfinished projects, but the small refrigerator is sparkling clean and stocked with Lacey's favorite snacks—Diet Cherry Coke and miniature bottles of Riesling, plus sliced cheddar cheese and apples.

Gold is bent over an antique vase with a magnifying glass, and Lacey smiles at the back of his head as she sips her soda and nibbles on an apple. All his small, thoughtful gestures are too much to believe, and gratitude inspires her to make him proud. He won't regret having her at the shop for these next two weeks.

"What's with the computer?" she asks after they split an order of lasagna and salad for lunch. She drums her nails against a sealed box containing a brand new laptop.

"You know me and technology," Gold says, gesturing toward his flip phone with an embarrassed flush.

Lacey recognizes that look. Inadequacy. It's a condition she's far too well acquainted with. Normally it's a weakness she'd exploit, and the rush of sympathy she feels catches her by surprise.

With his cultured accent, custom-made three-piece suits, and smooth manners, Lacey would swear Gold must know about everything. Secretly, she's pleased to discover an area to be useful beyond cleaning. Finding a chink or two in his sophisticated armor gives her the boost of confidence she needs and oddly increases her admiration for him.

"No worries, Gold," she says, cocking a hip in her favorite devil-may-care pose. "I'll have it up and running for you in no time."

"Great," he says, his expression brightening.

"Um, at the nail salon, I created a new accounting system. I could show you…" Suddenly nervous, she tugs at the hem of her skirt.

He waves a dismissive hand and her heart plummets. "Go ahead and set it up," he says meeting her eyes with a smile. "I trust you."

She can't stop the foolish grin that spreads across her face, nor can she resist issuing a challenge.

"I'll bet I can get this done by the close of business today," she says, bending over the laptop box to give Gold a tantalizing view of her rear end.

"You think so?" he asks, giving a pointed glance at his Rolex.

"Yes," she purrs, turning around to run her index finger down his tie, "but this level of productivity is going to cost you."

"What?" His brow wrinkles in adorable confusion and her heart picks up speed. Why does he have to be so damn handsome?

"If I win, you owe me a kiss." She darts her tongue out to wet her bottom lip, watching his eyes focus on her mouth.

He stiffens, clearing his throat. "And if I win? What do I get?"

"The satisfaction of being right," she says with a saucy smirk.

"No." He holds up a hand. "If I win, you stop trying to seduce me."

"That again?" she scoffs, making a show of rolling her eyes.

"Yes, that again. I want to court you properly," he says.

"Whatever." He can't possibly mean this romantic drivel. But don't men typically say these things to get a woman _into_ bed, and not the other way around? Lacey files the thought away to consider later. After she wins this bet.

"Do we have a deal, Miss French?" he asks, holding out his hand.

"Deal." Lacey grasps his palm with a quick, firm pump and rips open the computer box.

###


	2. Days Five-Ten

**_Day 5 – Wednesday_**

Lacey French is losing her touch.

She slouches in her chair, elbows on the table as she picks at her Chicken Parmesan. Continuing in his bid for sainthood, Gold had whipped up her favorite dinner in the world, complete with a side of tender pasta and a green salad. There's even a fancy custard for dessert, but the injured look in Gold's eyes makes the food taste like dirt. Lacey can't spare the funds to eat out and she is usually too lazy to cook. Now a fantastic meal is front of her, and she can't even enjoy it.

Squirming noisily, she scowls at her plate, then sticks out her tongue at Gold. Not that he would notice. He's too busy ignoring her tonight, punishing her for today's stunt in the pawnshop and a litany of other offenses.

As she had expected, she won Tuesday's bet over the computer.

While Gold attended a town council meeting, she'd stayed behind at the shop to load software, install virus protection, and set up the promised accounting system. All that done, she'd begun to catalogue shop inventory and was typing furiously when he walked through the shop door to check on her progress.

 _"Having trouble, dearie?" he'd asked, tilting his head with a smirk._

 _"Not a bit," she said, beckoning him closer. The computer screen displayed the neat arrangements of applications and files, and as he checked her work, she took advantage of his nearness and distraction to graze his ear with her teeth. "I'm just inventorying your many…assets."_

 _"I see," he said, still focused on the laptop. His Adam's Apple bobbed and she bit back a laugh. He wasn't nearly as calm as he was pretending to be. Smiling, he turned to face her. "This is excellent. You did well."_

 _"Save your compliments, Gold. You owe me a kiss," she said, wrapping her arms around his neck. Lacey toyed with the soft hair at his nape, tugging on the ends in a way she knew drove him mad._

 _"Do I?" he drawled._

 _"Yes," she said, pressing closer to scrape his scalp with her fingertips._

 _"Well, I always pay my debts," he said, his pupils blown wide and nearly black as he leaned forward to capture her lips._

 _Lacey's intentions to control the kiss quickly unraveled—she'd won the bet, after all—but Gold dominated her senses as he slanted his mouth over hers, hot and fierce. He tasted like spearmint tea and wood smoke, and some unique, primal flavor that belonged to him alone. Helpless against the onslaught, she melted into him, clinging to his suit coat._

 _When he broke the kiss, she collapsed against his hard chest in a boneless heap, her breath ragged and her vision blurry._

Well, she's not wasting a great Italian meal simply to satisfy his foul mood. Lacey twirls her pasta around her fork with sensual flicks of the wrist, moaning after every bite. Without making eye contact, he takes a sip of Chianti and returns his attention to the stack of contracts at his elbow. In point of fact, he hasn't once looked up from the paperwork he brought home from the shop today.

Lacey winces. Maybe she _had_ pushed him too far.

This morning before work, she'd paraded around upstairs as they got ready for the day, buck naked and glistening with water after her bath. He'd merely raised an eyebrow and tossed her a robe.

"Damn, you're boring," she remarked at breakfast as he sat down to bacon and eggs for the fifth day in a row. "No wonder your wife left you." It was a low blow to niggle him about his failed marriage—God knows she's no relationship guru—but he simply pursed his lips and shook his head before disappearing inside the morning edition of _The Storybrooke Mirror._

As payback for yesterday's mind-blowing kiss, she'd gone down on him in the shop today, crouching behind the counter when Mayor Mills demanded an audience about zoning in the business district. The moment Regina left the shop, Gold had leveled her with a furious glare and zipped his pants.

For the rest of the afternoon, he walked around the store with his nose in the air and a lump in his trousers, refusing to speak to her except for the occasional monosyllabic grunt. The walk home was long, tense, and silent.

A lot like tonight's dinner.

She likes it much better when he's bossing her around.

"Are you going to pretend I'm invisible all night?" she demands, unable to bear his quiet disapproval.

In reply, he picks up his wineglass and files and leaves the room. The slam of his office door is hard enough to rattle the window frames.

Lacey walks to his empty seat at the table, takes a swig from the wine bottle, and pulls a face. It seems like a good night to break into his liquor cabinet with a hairpin and forget today had ever happened.

Gold's obvious suffering should flatter her, so why does she feel so awful?

* * *

 ** _Day 6 – Thursday_**

Gold's eyelids pop open. His skin is cold and clammy, his breathing harsh and shallow in the silence. He rolls over with a groan and peers at the bedside clock. It's 3:33 a.m. "Only a dream," he tells the darkness, sitting up in bed. "Not real."

He runs a hand over his bleary eyes, his subconscious replaying the evening of Lacey's accident. The night she left him.

Nightmare Lacey's blood red mouth was an ugly gaping maw as she laughed at his declaration of love. "I'm never coming back here again, Gold," she jeered, dangling his car keys in front of his face.

Seized by a fear that she's gone for good this time, he shrugs on his robe and pads to her bedroom at the end of the hallway. Holding his breath, he twists the knob and hovers on the threshold, sighing in relief at the outline of her shape under piles of blankets. _Still here_. Shuffling along the carpet, he creeps closer and peers into her sleeping face. Lacey's breath is soft and event, her pale oval face relaxed in sleep.

"I love you, Lacey," he whispers, leaning over her. "Lass, please don't ever leave me."

A hot tear leaks from his eye, dropping onto her satin cheek. It rolls down her face, wetting the pillowcase.

Trembling, Gold turns around and hobbles back to his room.

Thoughts of Lacey make him toss and turn, until the mauve light of dawn filters through the curtains and the sheets are rumpled and damp with sweat. Exhausted, he drags himself out of bed to face another day filled with Lacey's teasing smiles and touches. But he's no more than a game to her, and for the first time he acknowledges that this arrangement might have been a bad idea.

How much longer can he carry a torch for a woman determined not to love him back?

* * *

 ** _Day 7 – Friday_**

"How about some tea?" Lacey asks, approaching his workbench with her lower lip between her teeth.

"That would be lovely, thank you," Gold says, pleased for an excuse to rise and stretch his aching limbs.

Since early this morning he's been restoring an old pocket watch, the work small and meticulous. Lacey has been running the front of the store, only popping back to see him with the occasional question.

Lacey isn't a fan of tea, so he knows offering to make him a cup is something of an olive branch. She even bypasses the small microwave he bought so she can make popcorn and heat TV dinners, and pulls out the hotplate to boil the water properly. As she fills the kettle and chooses a teacup from the several antique sets clustered on the shelves, the off-key rock tune she hums makes him smile.

Yes, her antics drive him crazy, but he would not trade a single moment spent in her company.

"Shame you're not a tea drinker, dearie. I like to lace young women's drinks with Ecstasy to keep things interesting," he quips as she walks carefully toward him with a cup of steaming brew in hand. She's selected a teacup from his favorite set—white with a spray of blue and gold trim.

The brimming cup slips through her fingers, the dark liquid splashing on the Aubusson carpet and splattering on her shoes. "Oh!" she cries, her cool mask crumbling as she dives to the floor to retrieve the cup.

"It's just a cup," he assures her. "Did you burn yourself?"

"No, I'm fine," she says, showing him the spot where the porcelain has chipped in a deep V-shape. "Shit! I can't even make tea."

"Nonsense," he says. "You made it brilliantly. I surprised you and well, accidents happen."

"But I ruined it." She twists her mouth into a frown. "Now it's garbage."

"It's a beautiful cup," he protests. "True, it may be flawed, but it's still useful. Resilient. Pour me another, please?"

"Ok." She gives him a tremulous smile and selects another cup from the shelf.

"No," he says, snatching the new cup from her hands and replacing it with the chipped one. "In this cup. This is the only one I want."

* * *

A few hours later, a commotion out front makes him fly off the workbench, his senses on high alert. Raised voices and the shuffle of feet ricochet through the small shop, and Gold parts the curtains with a snap of his wrist.

Keith Nottingham, Storybrooke's resident womanizer, has Lacey backed into a corner, trapped between the wall and his spinning wheel. He's hollering at her in broken, disjointed sentences—something about jilting him on a date.

Frozen to the spot like a frightened animal, Lacey raises her wild, panicked gaze to his in a silent cry for help.

Gold is on Nottingham in an instant, dragging him away from Lacey by the sweat-stained collar of his shirt.

"Stay away from her!" Gold snarls, wedging himself between Lacey and danger. "How dare you come into my shop and harass my employee!"

"Employee? Oh, that's rich." Nottingham's eyes are bloodshot and cloudy from too much drink. "Word around town says the little slut's on some cushy community service assignment."

"Miss French is a lady, here under my protection," Gold says through clenched teeth. "I'll thank you to keep your filthy comments to yourself." He tilts his head and pins Nottingham with his iciest stare. "Tongue is a delicacy in many cultures."

"Protection? Is that what they're calling it these days?" Wheezing a laugh, Nottingham ignores the threat and staggers toward Lacey where she's huddled in the corner sobbing. Gold is an iron wall between them, and Keith cranes his neck to shout at her. "What's your problem, slut? This old man can't get it up at night? Thought you'd try him out during the day instead? I've got news for you, he'll never have the stamina to keep up with a whore like you."

The next thing Gold knows, he's holding Nottingham by the throat and bludgeoning him with the butt of his cane. _Thwack! Thwack Thwack!_ The sickening tone of metal and wood meeting flesh spurs him on. He cannot stop; he will never stop. He's suspended in time by a singular obsession: to make this bastard pay for scaring Lacey.

"Gold! Gold! Shaw!" Lacey's urgent voice booms in his ear, piercing the red haze of bloodlust. Stunned, he looks down at the unconscious man pinned to the floor beneath his legs.

Blood is everywhere. On his suit, on Nottingham's body, even splattered on Lacey's white, frightened face. He drops the cane and rolls off Nottingham. "Did he hurt you?" he asks, cupping her cheeks between his blood-caked hands.

"No." Scalding tears are falling between his fingers, but she shakes her head.

"Did I hurt you?" he asks, anxiously searching the blue depths of her eyes.

"No," she whispers, climbing into his lap with a sob. "You saved me."

"He's right, you know," he says. The adrenaline rush has begun to ebb, and exhaustion slurs his words. "I am old."

"Nothing he said about you is true," she tells him, laying her head on his shoulder. "You're wonderful."

* * *

 ** _Day 8 – Saturday_**

Gold strolls to the pawnshop alone for the first time since Monday.

Lacey was still fast asleep when he left, sleeping on her stomach like a little girl, her arms stretched over her head and her mouth open against the pillow. He couldn't bear to wake her and drag her into the shop for work, especially after what had happened with Nottingham. Besides, the mid-November wind is frigid, and she has only a thin leather jacket to keep her warm.

When he arrives at the shop, he'll call Dove and order her a new coat, something plush and luxurious for winter. Perhaps fur? A white stole would be a ravishing contrast to her dark hair and sparkling sapphire eyes.

He'd been reluctant to leave her this morning at all. Working with Lacey this past week, he realizes how lonely it is to run the store alone. No one can ever replace Lacey, but he should really think about hiring help after these fourteen days are up.

Once inside, he looks around, then relaxes into work quickly. Thanks to Sheriff Swan, the gruesome aftermath of Nottingham's visit has disappeared, and despite the drama of the previous day, Gold's heart is lighter than it has been in months.

 _Lacey called me wonderful._ A blush steals up his cheeks and there's flutter in his belly that he's sure he hasn't felt since he was a boy.

He glances at the computer desk in the corner opposite his spinning wheel—it's become her battle station in the past week—and smiles as he picks up the phone. The sooner he finishes placing these orders, the sooner he can return home to her. Imagining Lacey sprawled on the couch, watching a movie or reading a book as she waits for him, warms his heart.

He'll stop on the way home for a fresh bouquet of flowers and surprise her. Yes, she'll probably scowl at him and make some waspish remark, but then that flash of secret delight will light the corners of her eyes, making his efforts more than worth the trouble.

Lacey's bark is far worse than her bite.

* * *

Standing in front of the open refrigerator, Lacey ties her new leather apron around her waist with a small shiver. For months she'd admired the one that the feisty Bitchin' Kitchen chick wears—Nadia something-or-other—and today she ran out and bought one. It's an expensive splurge she could never afford on her own meager salary, but Gold won't miss the money.

Besides, the apron isn't only for show. It's useful, too, and Gold will enjoy seeing her wear it. And it's on over her clothes! That should count for something, right? She'd rather serve him dinner clad in this naughty apron alone, but after the way he defended her to that scumbag Nottingham, she has decided to give him a break and try this courting business he's always running on about.

Fixing him a special dinner seems like a good starting point.

Mama's company chicken is a one-dish wonder, and the only recipe she taught Lacey to make for Daddy before she died. It's a simple recipe—chicken breasts doused in marmalade, orange juice, and soy sauce and baked until everything is tender and melded together. Not haute cuisine, but it's the best Lacey French can do. Hopefully she won't burn it.

"What are you cooking?" Gold asks, sniffing the air from the kitchen doorway.

"Mr. Gold. You're back," she says surprised to see him home already. And bearing flowers.

"As are you," he says, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

She glances around the homey kitchen. "Well, what can I say? Love the ambiance." She accepts the cluster of bold red amaryllis with a smile and drops the blooms into a tall vase. Funny how quickly things change; a week ago today he'd come to the hospital with Tiger lilies and she'd almost hurled them at his head.

"Does dinner smell bad?" she asks, flicking on the oven light and peering inside.

"No, the food smells great. Citrusy. And I like your apron." His eyes move appreciatively over her body, and she flushes with pleasure.

"Good," she says, swatting his backside with a kitchen towel. "Now get outta here, or I'll make you the meal."

"Yes ma'am," he says with a jaunty salute. "I'll go set the table."

When dinner is served, he eats every last bite of the chicken concoction with a grin plastered across his face, and Lacey shakes her head as he scrapes his plate. "How can you chew when you're smiling like a fool?" she asks. "It's not _that_ good."

"You made it for me," he says, still grinning like a possum.

"So?" She takes a thoughtful bite and chews slowly. His plate is empty and she's not even halfway through her meal.

"So, that makes it special," he answers. "And it's delicious. Is there any more?"

* * *

 ** _Day 9 – Sunday_**

"Granny's?" he asks.

Lacey burps and splays her hand across her sternum with a groan. "Gross. Sorry. Those chili dogs she served us for lunch are still barking," she says. "Chinese?"

"Golden Wok is closed this week," he says. "The owners are away on vacation. Leftovers?"

"Gone. You ate all the company chicken. How about pizza?" She holds up the menu for Geppetto's.

"No, I've got it." He waggles his eyebrows and holds up a finger.

"Do tell."

"What would you say to dessert for dinner this evening? Care to join me for a cone at Any Given Sundae?"

"Sounds perfect."

The ice cream shop is quiet, and Lacey sits across from Gold in comfortable silence eating a bittersweet mint sundae with dark chocolate fudge sauce. His double scoop of bubble gum ice cream drips from a humongous waffle cone.

"Aren't you full of surprises, Gold? I don't picture you as a bubble gum ice cream lover," Lacey says, catching a blob of whipped cream with her finger and sucking it into her mouth. "Isn't there carpaccio flavor or some shit like that you can order?"

"How droll you are, Miss French," he says, holding out his cone with an impish smile. "I'm a child at heart, I guess. I like the contrast of the soft ice cream with the frozen bits of gum. Give it a try."

Lacey leans forward and laps at the ice cream with the tip of her tongue. "That's not bad," she says. "Not as decadent and delicious as this mint chocolate, but good." She closes her mouth around another spoonful and her eyes drift closed as the fresh, creamy treat melts on her palate. _Heaven._

"Lacey! Hey!"

 _Oh God. Maybe if I keep my eyes shut, they'll disappear._

Lacey cracks one eye open. _No such luck._ Ariel and Ruby, her coworkers from the nail salon, are hovering beside their table, watching Gold eat his ice cream with undisguised interest. Lacey shoots them a dirty look, but they continue to stand there, gawking at Gold and giggling.

Gold's phone rings, the sound penetrating the awkward silence.

"Lacey, I'll just…" Dabbing his mouth with a napkin, he rises from his chair and tosses what's left of his cone in the trash can.

"Yep. See you outside."

Lacey waits until the door closes behind Gold before whirling around to face her friends. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Us?" Ruby's green eyes are wide and innocent. "We were in the neighborhood and saw you in the window batting your lashes at that silver fox."

"Right," Ariel says, wagging her head. "We're concerned citizens and wanted to see how the community service project was going. So, how's it going?"

"Hilarious," Lacey says, darting a nervous glance outside to where Gold is strolling up and down the sidewalk as he talks. Strong. Confident. So certain of himself and who he is. Cocking his head, he pauses the conversation to shoot her a brilliant smile, and her legs melt like her mint sundae.

"Sundaes on a Sunday, how quaint," Ruby teases, stealing a bite of the confection. Abruptly, her tone turns serious. "Lace, don't eff this up, ok? I mean, the guy is crazy about you."

"And he's rich," Ariel adds, fingering Lacey's new fur stole.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Lacey asked, stung by the insinuation that a relationship failure with Gold rests on her shoulders. Ariel and Ruby are supposed to be _her_ friends, not Gold's junior cupids.

"You should have seen how he was staring at you while you were orgasming over that stupid sundae. He thinks _you're_ the ice cream cone," Ruby says with a wink.

"And he's rich," Ariel says.

"You already said that." Lacey's tone is terse. Not needing to worry about money is wonderful, as are the generous gifts Gold gives, but she isn't after his bank accounts.

She's not after him at all.

What difference does the truth make, though? When has anyone ever taken her word for anything, even her so-called friends? "Look, there's nothing to mess up, you guys. Like you said, it's just community service. See ya around, ok?"

Leaving her dish of ice cream in a puddle on the table, Lacey tosses her wrap over her shoulder and struts out onto the sidewalk to join Gold.

* * *

 ** _Day 10 – Monday_**

"I'm telling you, Gold, it's easy. Just sit down and give it a try," Lacey says.

"No." He crosses his arms. She's been badgering him about the damn computer all day, and he's ready to hurl the thing through the window into oncoming traffic. Wouldn't that get the town talking?

Lacey springs out of her chair, pointing him toward it even as he shakes his head. "Why are you being so stubborn?" she asks.

 _Because I don't want you to see how feeble I am with technology._ Admitting it aloud is one matter, but letting the woman he loves actually see how stupid he is? Quite another story.

Stalling, he busies himself with stacking and restacking files.

"How are you going to continue the system after I'm gone?" Lacey drags a hand through her ponytail. He can feel her frustration oozing out of every pore, and he smothers a laugh.

"Why should I, when I can hire someone to do this for me?" he asks, twisting the conversation.

"You mean one of us peasants?" she says with a snort.

"Precisely."

"Sit." The pointy red nail she jabs at the chair brooks no refusal.

"Fine." Stiff-limbed, he perches on the edge of the computer chair—Lacey's chair—and he feels as though he doesn't belong. This place has been his sanctuary for many years, but a piece of the shop is hers now, and it always will be.

"Relax, Gold," she orders, kneading his shoulders a few times. "You're more than capable of learning a few programs. You have a friggin' law degree."

"Yes, my certificate is on a stone tablet around here somewhere," he says arching a brow at her. "With all this proof of my powers of persuasion, one would think I could have convinced you to call me Shaw by now."

"Listen to you, cracking bad jokes." She punches his shoulder playfully, momentarily distracting him from her nearness.

It isn't enough.

Relaxing is impossible when she's standing right behind him, those delicate yet strong hands fluttering around his body as she grazes his ribcage to grasp the mouse. He can scarcely breathe, much less think about the directions she's giving, her voice hushed and husky. Oh, he would listen to her soft accent every minute of every day for the rest of his life. The scent of her perfume wafts under his nose, spicy, mysterious, and slightly sweet. It smells like Lacey.

"Do you always read computer screens with your eyes closed?" she asks, her lips touching his ear. He can feel her smirking at him, but he doesn't mind. With her sweet breath on his face, he would be content to never move again.

"Yeah, it's kind of a religious thing," he says, opening his eyes. _Smooth, Gold. Really smooth._

His fantasy of keeping Lacey forever remains exactly that—a fantasy, and a foolish one at that.

"I give up." She straightens and puts her hands on her hips. "You're impossible to teach."

"Glad you've finally seen the light. Perhaps you'll have to pop by every so often and update the system for me?" He sniffs imperiously to cover his discomfiture, waving a hand at the hated computer. "Ensure that my new minion is using it properly?"

"Not a chance, Gold," she bites back. But the words are said with a wide smile.

###


	3. Days Eleven-Fourteen

**Day 11 – Tuesday**

Lacey lies in bed staring at the ceiling, consumed by images of Gold working at his spinning wheel today in the shop.

To see Gold spin is to watch a great artist splash color on a canvas. His movements are fluid, yet controlled; he is calm, yet passion ripples beneath the surface. The wheel flows through his long, expressive fingers and he caresses the polished surface like he would a lover, slow and sensual.

Not that I can remember what being touched feels like.

It's been well over a week since they've slept together, and tonight he sent her to bed with another peck on the forehead.

Lacey had sauntered up the stairs ahead of him, swirling her hips. A wicked smile lit her face as she walked, the knowledge that Gold's eyes were plastered to her buttocks for the entire trip up the long staircase making her feel powerful and desirable. That, at least, was familiar territory.

What he's doing for her is sweet and old fashioned, though. No man has ever treated her as anything more than a living doll, a set of wide blue eyes and big boobs. No man except for Shaw Gold.

For months, his standing pedicure appointments had been the highlight of her boring week. Every Tuesday he would come to the salon, dressed impeccably and smelling divine. Despite being a nail technician, she doesn't have a foot fetish. In fact, she thinks most men's feet are ugly. But not Gold's. Though large, his feet are narrow and prim, smooth and hairless—as distinguished and dignified as the rest of his persona. Working at Nail Fetish is a brainless endeavor, one far beneath her intellect, but crossing the tracks into Storybrooke's high-rent district was worth it, just for the pleasure of sparring with Gold and teasing him about nail polish colors.

The truth hits her like a punch in the gut—she misses sleeping beside Gold. It's not only the sex (and oh, she does miss that), but his company she craves. They didn't spend every night together, but she's grown used to the rhythm of his breathing on the pillow next to her; she's become accustomed to his warm, masculine scent; she yearns for the safety of his arms around her.

Being with him during the day isn't enough. Being with him only at night won't satisfy her, either. Damn him. The feelings he's stirring inside her can only lead to heartbreak.

With a restless sigh, she watches flickers of moonlight dance on the ceiling and dreams of the man sleeping at the opposite end of the hallway. It's going to be a long, sleepless night.

* * *

Living in the same house with the woman he loves is slowly killing Gold.

Gold steps out the shower and rubs his face with a towel. The image of her licking his ice cream cone the other night is permanently tattooed into his brain. His towel smells like Lacey, and his body responds against his will, the cooling effects of the cold water evaporating like lightening. A flirty red bra is hanging where the hand towel should be, and he yanks it off the rod and flings it into the hallway. Can't she keep her lingerie in her own bathroom, damn her?

For a moment, he hovers outside her bedroom door, poised to knock. No. Separate bedrooms was his idea, and if he crumbles now, it will undo all their fragile progress toward a real life together.

Cursing himself with each step, he stomps down the hall and climbs into bed.

* * *

 **Day 12 – Wednesday**

Thunder cracks, and Gold jerks awake, startled by a shimmering figure hovering at the foot of the bed. Lacey. He should have expected to see her tonight. She can't stand thunderstorms, but she's never told him why.

"Lass, you scared the hell out of me," he mumbles, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"I'm sorry," she says, quaking from head to toe. "Can-can I sleep with you? Please?"

His heart lurches with sympathy as she waits for permission—she looks lost and afraid, like a little girl. He gives a nod of assent, drawing back the covers and opening his arms to her.

The sight of her tear-stained face sears his soul, and he draws her against his chest as she sobs, tucking her head under his chin and tightening his hold.

"I hate storms," she says, her teeth chattering as the thunder roars again and a white hot arc of lightning slashes through the sky. "My daddy used to lock me in the closet when it rained like this."

"Shhh," he murmurs, rocking her as he absorbs this horrifying piece of information. "You don't have to be so brave, my love. Let yourself fall…I promise to catch you."

Lacey says nothing, just nestles closer to him and wraps her arms around his back, her clenched fists pressing against his spine.

The heat of her body seeps through his pajamas, and he kisses her temple, crooning nonsense into her ear. Without thinking, he curves a lazy palm around her breast, then freezes, realizing what he's done. Her body's response is instant, the nipple puckering and hardening to his touch. Lightning flashes, illuminating the room, and Lacey's blue eyes are soft and needy. Breaking every promise he made to himself about touching her this way, he begins to press open-mouthed kisses to her milky throat, feeling her moan reverberate through his lips. She pulls him closer, fisting one hand in his sleep shirt. With the other hand she flicks buttons open to expose his chest, her tongue scorching a path across his skin.

"No," he croaks, stopping her descent as her head moves down his chest toward his stomach. It's been too long since he's felt her body next to his, and he'll disgrace himself like a schoolboy if she touches him now. "Let me, lass. Let me."

Moaning, she rolls onto her back and opens her legs to his gentle probing.

Loving the sounds of her soft mews and tiny cries, he touches her everywhere he can reach, biting back a groan when he finds her soaked and silky. "So beautiful," he praises, rubbing her slippery flesh until she wails.

"Say it," he demands, even as he strokes her into a frenzy. He barely recognizes the sound of his own voice as he coaxes her to respond—low and gravelly, full of lust and love and need.

"Please," she begs, snapping her hips in wanton jerks.

"My name," he grates out. "Say my name."

"Please," she sobs again, and he pauses, resting his hand on her mound as he gazes into her burning eyes.

Lacey's lips are parted, she is gasping for breath, and her hair is a wild and damp halo around her gorgeous face. She's so exuberant and abandoned in her pleasure, and Gold is rock-hard and aching. Nothing excites him more than watching his love unravel before his eyes.

He claims her mouth, driving his tongue deep as he teases her core once more, intent on banishing every man she's ever been with, leaving no memory or sensation but that of his eyes on her body and his touch branding her skin.

"Who am I, Lacey?" A fresh wave of warmth floods him, and he grinds his hips against the mattress, desperate for the counter-pressure.

"Shaw," she whines, tossing her head as she seeks his fingers. "Oh, Shaw."

He curls his hand inside her body, pressing her pearl with his thumb, until at last her walls clench and pulse around him as she screams her release.

Twice more he brings her to completion with mouth and hands, intent on seeing her shatter again and again, until he has wrung every last drop of pleasure from her body.

"My turn," she whispers in his ear. Her voice is hoarse from crying out, and pride surges through him to know that he loved her well.

She pushes at his shoulders until he flips over onto his back, closing his eyes in a wave of bliss when she lightly scrapes her nails against his scalp, making him shiver. He loves to feel her fingers in his hair. Her other hand snakes into his sleep pants, easing him out, her delicate touch soft and cool as she clutches his fevered hardness.

A few pumps of his shaft sends him over the edge.

"I love you," he cries out, spilling his seed across Lacey's softness.

They lay together in a molten, sweaty tangle while they catch their breaths. Gold grinds his teeth, waiting to be mocked, but he can't unsay the words. No, he cannot hold back his love for her any more than he can keep the tide from crashing against the sand. She doesn't speak, simply curls around him with a sated smile, peaceful and serene as a kitten. Only when he hears her trademark tiny snores does Gold allow sleep to claim him.

* * *

Lacey awakens groggy and disoriented, confused about where she is. Slowly, her surroundings come into focus. Gold is asleep on the opposite side of the bed, and Lacey remembers all. She'd come to his room to escape the storm, seeking his strength and comfort. Hungry for his touch.

The enormous bed may as well be a postage stamp—Lacey's skin is hot and tight, and the room is stifling. Desperate for fresh air, she cracks the window open and scans the street below. Cold, damp air sweeps over her heated flesh, making her shiver. The temperature has plummeted, driving rain giving way to snow. Fat flakes are falling from the onyx sky. They swirl and dance in the wind.

Aimless, but free.

An outline on the bedside table catches her eye. Gold's wallet. She picks it up and studies it for a long moment, sneaking a guilty glance at his side of the bed.

A pang of longing for her no-strings life claws at her. The mingled scent of beer and sweat at the pool hall, the burn of cheap liquor scalding her throat, the freedom to come and go as she pleases. Lacey tiptoes back to the window, Gold's wallet still clutched in her palm, and looks down at the driveway.

Dove brought the car back yesterday, looking good as new. She can't even believe it's the same vehicle she totaled almost two weeks ago. Gold's wallet is heavy in her hands. It would be so easy to lift a few Ben Franklins, grab the keys, and drive away.

No. If she leaves this time, it will be on foot, and there will be no coming back. Gold will never forgive her if she runs again. I will never forgive myself.

God, when had her life become so complicated?

Beginning a casual affair with Gold had seemed like a smart idea, a facsimile of happiness where no one would be hurt. He'd been married once—a short-lived union to a woman named Cora—and Lacey's had her own share of bad lovers and pushy boyfriends. Despite their casual agreement, she's been faithful to Gold from the first, not that she'd confess her fidelity in the town square. Everyone in Storybrooke believes that Lacey sleeps around, and she's learned through experience to be what they expect. It's safer that way.

Now two hearts are involved, and Lacey is tired of playing it safe.

She hadn't counting on a man as incredible as Shaw Gold falling in love with her. And she sure as hell hadn't expected to love him back. But these past two weeks have meant more than she can ever say, and the man sleeping next to her has become her world. She can't return to the way things used to be.

Tomorrow she'll tell him that she wants to stay, if he'll have her.

Lacey tucks her lover's wallet into the drawer of the nightstand, slides back into bed, and falls asleep.

* * *

 **Day 13 – Thursday**

"Good morning," she says, for once sunny and cheerful when he comes downstairs.

Today she's first at the stove, flipping buttermilk pancakes and doing a halfway decent job, too. The morning is bright with possibilities, a happy future in her grasp for the first time ever. During breakfast, she's going to tell Shaw that she loves him.

"What's so good about it?" he retorts, his expression thunderous. He throws a thick folder on the kitchen island.

Stunned, she abandons the stove and stares at him, squeezing the spatula. Usually they eat breakfast in their sleepwear, but Gold is already buttoned into a pressed suit, an intimidating all-black ensemble she's never seen before.

"Is there a funeral or something?" she jokes. Does he regret being with her last night?

He laughs, a harsh, ugly sound.

"Shaw," she says, flattening her palms against his shoulders, "what is it?"

"It's me seeing things clearly for the first time in months," he says vaguely, his eyes dark and hard as he steps out of her arms. "Here." He nods toward the large file on the counter.

Lacey backpedals till her bottom hits the wall of kitchen cabinets. Behind her, the pancakes begin to smoke and burn. Quickly, she turns off the stove, then faces Gold once more.

"Take it." Gold's mouth is a grim line and the skin around his eyes is pinched and white.

"I don't want that," she says, her heart leaping into her throat when he removes a crisp stack of papers from the folder. The words "Last Will and Testament" are stamped in ugly black letters on the first page, and a certified check issued to Lacey A. French for an obscene amount of money rests on top of the pile.

"Of course you do," he sneers, holding out a Mont Blanc pen. "That's what I've been to you all along, right? A reverse charity case. You take pity on me, spend time with an old cripple, and I pay you for the privilege."

"No," she says. "That's—that's not true."

"No more lies, Lacey," he says quietly. "I can't do this anymore."

"Stop it!" she screeches, his cool demeanor unnerving her. "You're the one who set this up. This fourteen day scheme was your stupid idea, not mine!"

"Ah well, in business I've failed as much as I've succeeded."

"Business?" she echoes, confused.

"Yes, of course." He throws her a nasty smile. "This was a business arrangement, and it's come to an end."

"I don't understand." Feeling cold and vulnerable in her thin nightgown, she wraps protective arms around herself and shakes her head.

"Allow me to illuminate the situation for you," he says, his voice cold and impersonal. "I saw you last night with my wallet in your hands. Dammit, Lacey, don't you know by now that there's nothing I wouldn't give you? You don't have to steal from me. You only have to ask."

Unable to form a coherent thought, Lacey continues to wag her head. I love you! she wants to scream. I love you, and I put your wallet away! But the words won't come. The pain in Shaw's eyes is blinding, and Lacey turns away. The truth is there on her tongue, and she longs to tell him that he's been right all along.

Yes, she loves him, but fear is a cruel jailer. Now, even the knowledge that they love each other isn't enough to make a convincing case. Shaw's mouth is twisted in a horrible grimace, the one he reserves for the people he loathes. People like Keith Nottingham.

Lacey has become the enemy.

He scissors the check between two fingers and waves it in front of her face with an icy stare. "Your apartment building is repaired, and all the damages are paid for. This is for college, for living, cigarettes, whiskey, drugs…I don't give a damn what you use it for, honestly."

"But…"

"Save your breath." Gold holds up a shaking hand, staying her protests. "I don't want you anymore, dearie. Take your money and get out of my house."

The harsh reality of a future without him hits her full force, and she flees the room in tears.

* * *

 **Day 14 – Friday**

It's the wee hours of Thursday night, technically Friday morning, and the Rabbit Hole is hopping.

Lacey saunters up to the bar in ripped jeans, a chartreuse halter top, and heeled boots. They aren't designer duds, but at least they're hers. She orders a tequila, bottom rung, and downs it before she remembers that she can afford the good stuff. Feeling generous, she buys a round of top-shelf booze for everyone in the bar, and yells 'Cheers' with a fake smile.

"Here's to Mr. Gold," she murmurs to herself through clenched teeth, tossing back the second shot.

Both the rotgut and the highbrow version taste like swill.

At least she can funnel her windfall toward the fashion design degree she'd been pursuing before she'd had to come home to take care of Daddy. Yet Lacey's not entirely sure she wants a career in fashion or a job as a nail technician. She misses the pawnshop. There her life had meaning and purpose. She loves working with the accounting and inventory systems, chatting with the customers, and standing sentinel at her computer where she has both a view of the workroom and the front door.

This terrible longing chewing her up inside has nothing to do with the shop owner. Nothing at all, she tells herself. Liar.

Who is she under all the makeup and spandex and teased hair? Lacey isn't sure anymore. She only knows that while she was working and living with Gold, she felt more like the person she was meant to be. Someone she wants to be.

Leaning against the jukebox, Lacey hunts for a song that matches her foul mood. Typically she's a hair metal fan, but the upbeat pulse of rock and roll won't cut it tonight. She wavers between Taylor Swift's "Picture to Burn" and "Married" by Emily Kinney. Screw marriage. Swift it is.

Glum, Lacey nurses a beer at the bar and wonders what she ever saw in her once-favorite hangout. The pool tables are stained and threadbare; the floor is sticky and smells like urine; the patrons are a rough and sorry bunch. Even the bold and sassy Ruby Lucas won't venture into the Rabbit Hole without a friend at her side.

No wonder Gold calls this place a vile joint.

Gold, Gold, Gold, Gold. Lacey buries her head in her hands, trying to forget, but his face swims before her eyes again and again, mocking her for caring.

How dare he push her away without even giving her the chance to explain? The old Lacey would never have taken this crap. She would have gotten in his face and made him listen.

Maybe it's not too late to do exactly that.

"Last call, Lace." The bartender pokes her shoulder.

"Thanks, Al," she says, lifting her head and collecting her purse.

"You need any help?" he asks gruffly.

"No," she says, a slow smile spreading across her face, "no, I know my way home."

Lacey walks the three blocks to the pawnshop and crashes on the cot. The gentle buzz thrumming through her system will help her catch a few hours of shuteye before Gold opens at 8 o'clock. Yes, she has plenty to say to Mr. Shaw Gold, and this time she won't be dismissed or ignored.

* * *

Gold drags himself to the shop with a leaden heart, electing to take the car instead of walking. The walk seems too long and lonely without Lacey at his side, chattering up a storm and plying him with questions. Bile burns his throat and everything in him wants to call in sick, but the house is as cold and silent as a tomb. If Lacey were home, she would be dancing around the living room to her terrible music. He'd give just about anything to hear some Def Leppard right now.

Gold, you are pathetic.

He pulls into his parking spot and unlocks the front of the store, causing the little bell above the door to tinkle a merry welcome.

But the shop is empty, and reality wraps around him like a cold, dark night. He is an unlovable nobody. Cora's words are still true after all.

"What are you so happy about?" he asks the bell with a glare. In a fit of temper, he rips it off the door and tosses it into the street. It skitters onto the pavement and rolls to a stop, small and alone.

"What'd you do that for?" a voice calls from the workroom. "We just replaced that bell."

Lacey.

Gooseflesh breaks out over Gold's flesh and he studies the fresh gouges he put in the door, composing himself before he turns to face her.

"I must say, I'm surprised to see you here." Gold can't believe how calm and detached he sounds, when every fiber of his being is humming in her presence.

She's leaning against the doorjamb, wearing yesterday's clothes and reeking of cigarettes and cheap alcohol, and he clasps his cane with both fists to keep from reaching for her.

Gold has never been so happy to see another person in his entire life.

"Fourteen days—that was the deal. My last day is today, right?" She lifts her pointy chin, a challenge in her eyes.

"Why?" he asks. "What do you want? It's not me." Bitterness creeps into his voice. He'd meant to keep quiet, but the hurt is too raw. It's all her fault, damn her. Her fault for creating this abominable hole in his life that can never be filled with anything or anyone else. "I'm suitable to ease the ache between your thighs, but you don't love me."

Two tiny crescents appeared between her eyebrows. "Who says I don't?"

"You did, dearie. In a thousand different ways these past two weeks. And before that, the entire time we've been doing—" he waved a hand at her—"whatever it is we've been doing. Congratulations, you win."

Her lip quivers. "I don't want to win."

"Why can't you just say it?" he begs, hot tears coursing down his cheeks. "You don't care about me. You never have. Say the words, Lacey. 'I don't care about you, Shaw, and I don't want to see you anymore.' That's all I wanted yesterday. For you to say something."

"I stayed, Shaw," she says. "That means more than any words I could ever say. I do love you. I tried to tell you yesterday, but you wouldn't let me speak. You kept tossing money and paperwork in my face!"

"Because it's what I thought you wanted!"

"No. I just wanted you. The other night…I'm sorry I ever picked up your wallet. It was after the storm and you made me feel…incredible. Then I woke up not knowing where I was. At first I felt trapped, and yeah, I wanted to run. But then I realized that everything I wanted and needed in my life was right there in that room." Lacey takes a step toward him, and wraps her arms around his waist. "I stayed. I chose you."

"How do I know it won't happen again?" he asks, pulling out of the embrace to cup her face in his hands. He won't survive losing her a third time.

"How do we know? We don't. I mean, no one is guaranteed tomorrow," she says, employing a wisdom and reason that seem to have deserted him. "All I can do is promise to love you with everything I am. Can that be enough for you?"

* * *

Gold pours steaming peppermint tea into his goofy little chipped teacup—the one that she broke last week—and hands her a soda.

"Actually, I'd like some tea, too," she says, offering him a timid smile. "It's a little early for a soda, and your brew is starting to grow on me."

"As you wish," he says. His gaze is shuttered, and she knows he's processing everything that has passed between them this morning, and that there are so many words yet left unspoken.

She takes a cavalier approach, because she's terrified of losing him, and humor works. Laughter has been the glue that's held them together from the start.

"Nice try, writing me off with a big, fat check," she says, crossing the workroom to the cot where he's sipping tea; his bleak eyes remind her of a wounded puppy. She plops down next to him and jabs her elbow into his ribs.

"Ow! What was that for?"

"I told you. You're not getting rid of me so easily, Gold."

He sets down his teacup and turns toward her with his face downcast, taking both of her hands in his. "I don't want to get rid of you."

"Then why are you so upset right now?" she asks.

"Because I'm selfish, Lacey. I want you forever. That was the whole point of this ridiculous endeavor. To show you that nothing you can do or say will ever make me leave you. And then I failed you; did exactly what you expected. I refused to trust you or listen, and I ignored what was right in front of me." He caresses her cheek. "I'm sorry. Can you forgive me?"

"Of course I forgive you. I'm sorry, too." She shifts closer to him on the cot, till they're seated hip to hip. Without even realizing it, Lacey has grown accustomed to relying on him. Now he is the one in need of her reassurances. "We're going to fail each other, Gold. Neither of us is perfect, and we're going to fail and make mistakes and yell and fight like idiots."

"How did you get to be so smart about life and love?" he asks, the corners of his mouth titling up.

She shrugs. "I'm learning as I go."

"There's more," he says, squeezing her hands. "My wife didn't leave me, ok?"

"What?" Lacey stares at him in disbelief. When they met, he told her he'd once been married, that it didn't take.

"Cora and I, we never married. We were engaged for five years until she canceled the wedding when my ankle was crushed in a car accident. That's the real reason I showed up at the hospital that day and concocted this entire scheme, lass. I didn't want you to go on believing that you aren't worth loving. For many years, I believed the lies Cora told me. That I was nothing." A spark ignites in his eyes. "But I'm not nothing. I was nevernothing. And neither are you."

"I know that now," she says. "Because of you. You see me—better than anyone else. And through your eyes, I see myself more clearly than I ever thought possible. I am worth loving. We both are." And it dawns on her that the words are true. Even if the knowledge often fails to make the twelve-inch journey from her head to her heart.

"I love you, Lacey French."

"Shaw," she says, her eyes filling with tears. "I love you, too. And now that our fourteen days are almost up, I would like to propose a new arrangement."

"Really? What do you have in mind?" he asks, and the hope that lifts his voice makes her spirit soar.

"Ask me to stay," she says, kissing his fingertips. "Ask me to marry you."

He palms her cheek, warm brown eyes skating over her face, and lowers his voice. "Lacey, will you?"

"Yes," she says crushing her mouth to his. A delicious warmth spreads in her belly, fueling their kiss, and she laughs in delight as he breaks away from her lips to pepper her eyes, nose, chin, and cheeks with adoring pecks. "Is forever too long?"

"My wonderful lass," he says, eyes sparkling with happiness, "forever can never enough be with you."

 **-THE END-**


	4. Day Twelve - The Cabin

_Summary: Anon prompt on Tumblr: "Fourteen Days Lacey, have you ever been to Gold's cabin? It must be so romantic (and private) there ;-)" Takes place on Day 12, during the day._  
 _A/N: The timing of this ask is perfect; I wanted to write a cabin scene and I didn't have time to get it the way I wanted before the OUAT Positivity Exchange ended. It was too long and wasn't fitting into my original vignette structure. Hope you enjoy!_

Gold flexes his sweaty fingers and opens the passenger side door of the convertible.

"Where are you taking me?" Lacey complains as he drags her toward the rental car. "We have inventory to finish."

"Yes, yes." Gold waves an impatient hand. He'd never met a harder worker than himself until he watched Lacey transform his sloppy, outdated shop into a well-oiled machine. "Inventory can wait. I thought we'd spend an afternoon at my cabin. You've improved the shop so much in the last several days, and hard work should be rewarded. A change of scenery is exactly what we need."

She squints at him as if questioning his sanity. Hell, he was questioning it himself. Alone? At the cabin? With Lacey? Last night's burst of inspiration suddenly seems like a colossal error in judgement.

At least the house was large enough that he could escape her roving hands and the shop was a place of business. But look what the brazen lass had done there the other day, fondling him behind now-sparkling cases of antique jewelry while Regina Mills waxed poetic on zoning regulations!

And now—now she was acting like she couldn't even be bothered to get him alone. Are all women this maddening, or is it only this one?

Worry churns in his gut. Perhaps she is no longer attracted to him. Yes, she'd wasted enough time with a crippled older man who'd turned into standoffish prude. No doubt she was rethinking any association with him whatsoever.

He rakes a tense hand through his hair, vowing to redouble his romantic efforts this afternoon. Dammit, he should have packed a bottle of Dom Perignon and strawberries instead of turkey sandwiches and iced tea.

"I didn't know you were a nature lover," she says.

"Nature lover might be a stretch; I'm more of a nature admirer," he says, covering his worry with a wink. "And I can build a decent fire."

"Speaking of blazes, this is a hot car." Lacey runs a sharp purple nail across the midnight black finish and lowers her voice seductively. "Where'd you score a Bentley Continental?"

"Rental from Boston," he says, urging her to sit with a gentle hand at her back. "Shall we?"

Lacey ducks into the car and snags his wrist before he can close the door. "Seriously, Gold, what's this all about? The fancy car, the picnic basket? It's a bit late in our acquaintance for you to off me in the woods."

Gold grins at her morbid joke. Suspicious Lacey—always looking for hidden motives. "I'm feeling magnanimous today. Enjoy it while it lasts."

"'K." She releases his arm to buckle her seatbelt and scans the skyline. "It's supposed to rain, you know."

"Not until tonight."

"I'm not dressed for Camp Gold," she says, gesturing at her spiked heels and short skirt.

"I've brought you a change of clothes." Frustration chases away his smile. "Will you please stop being so difficult so we can enjoy the bloody afternoon?"

"Geez. Sorry." She crosses her arms and glares at him.

Gold gives her a soft smile. _Be patient._ Lacey isn't accustomed to being fussed over. "Hasn't anyone ever done anything kind for you, lass?"

"Sure. Lots of people." The answer comes too quickly, and Lacey stares at the dashboard, her unbound hair falling like a curtain across her cheek. "Why do you ask?"

"No reason," he says, brushing an auburn curl off her forehead. He's determined to make the afternoon fun, and to make her feel as special as she truly is.

* * *

They enjoy the forty minute drive to the cabin in comfortable silence, winding and curving through narrow roads lined with towering chestnut trees. It's too cold to have the top down, but Lacey doesn't mind. The luxurious leather seats are butter-soft, molding to her body like a second skin. Content, she watches the scenery fly by and sneaks covert glances at Gold's profile as he drives. His aquiline nose is incredibly sexy from this angle, and her heart flips over. Occasionally, she allows her hand to drift to his right knee, teasing him through his suit pants with gentle squeezes and light scratches.

The blue-green veins in his tanned hands bulge as he grips the steering wheel, knuckles stark white against the car's black interior, and a light sheen of sweat beads above his firm upper lip.

 _Good._

Except for that one kiss that had made her melt, he'd been dogged in his determination not to touch her for the past week and a half. Does he still desire her? She knows she's nothing special. For the thousandth time she wonders why Gold doesn't pursue a woman who knows which fork to use at a five-star restaurant and how to let the bouquet open on a fine Bordeaux. Lacey can barely say ceviche, let alone explain it. Still, she can't stand the idea that he's grown bored with her.

On impulse, she palms his groin and Gold jerks the wheel, causing the car to swerve and skid on the gravel path.

Gold slams on the breaks, bringing the Bentley to a screeching halt. "My God, you're not safe to be with!"

The expression on his face is so adorably horrified that Lacey throws back her head and laughs until they reach the cabin.

Tucked deep in the Maine woods, the little log structure is tidy and serviceable, featuring a main room with a large stone fireplace, a small bedroom, and a galley kitchen. The back porch overlooks a picturesque pond, the glassy surface rippling with fallen leaves.

While Gold tosses logs onto the hearth and strikes a match, Lacey steps into the middle of the living area and unbuttons her blouse.

"What are you doing?" Gold asks, averting his eyes from her scalloped, cobalt-blue bra.

Lacey shrugs, looking down at the swell of her breasts. "You said you had other clothes for me."

"Ah, yes. Right." She watches, amused, as he scrambles for the small leather bag he carried in from the car. He pulls out an oversized plaid shirt and a pair of jeans, handing them over in haste.

Lacey wrinkles her nose. "I don't do flannel."

"Put your shirt on or I'll take a saw to these things," he mutters, sneering at her heeled boots. "And remind me to buy you some sneakers."

"Says the guy who wears a three-piece suit into the woods," she says, looking pointedly at his charcoal pinstripe.

"I supposed we'll both be fine for one afternoon," he decides, scowling.

"What, am I bothering you?" she purrs, holding his gaze as she trails the hem of her shirt down the side of her neck and dips into her décolletage.

"Lacey, please," he whispers. A dark blush stains his cheeks and his brown eyes are deep pools of weakness.

The peal of Gold's mobile phone cuts off her response, and he stalks into the kitchen to accept the call. "Gold."

 _Again with the friggin' phone? Just when I was beginning to enjoy myself, too._ Padding into the bedroom, she makes quick work of changing clothes. Teasing Gold is no fun when he's occupied.

Bored, she prowls around the cabin in circles, opening cabinets and inspecting closets as he barks demands at the person on the other end of the line. The conversation crosses the thirty-minute mark and Lacey looks at the ceiling in exasperation. Gold is forever being badgered by lowlifes and losers who want to make a deal with the successful pawnbroker. People like me, she thinks, ashamed.

His face is creased in severe lines and he paces up and down the floorboards, speaking through a clenched jaw. It isn't the first time she's heard Gold in action and she's no stranger to his imperious airs, but today his commanding tone makes her stomach cramp.

 _It's only a matter of time, Lacey, before he tosses you out with the rest of the trash._

She tries to pry the ugly thought loose, but it settles on her chest like a barbell, heavy and unyielding. Waiting until Gold's back is turned, she slips out the door for some fresh air.

* * *

A hike in the woods had been a terrible idea. She'd intended to take a short walk to clear her muddled head and leave Gold alone to finish his business call, but somewhere she'd taken a wrong turn. To make matters worse, she'd tripped over a dead branch and tumbled to the forest floor, tearing a hole in her jeans and scraping her knee.

Cursing her heeled boots, she limps along the bumpy path and prays she's walking in the right direction. At last she turns a corner and sees the cabin. Sees him.

Gold is patrolling the grounds, his phone plastered to his ear, but he drops it in the dirt as their eyes meet. Even with a cane, his confident stride chews up the ground between them, and she allows her tired, trembling body to fall into his arms.

"Lacey, thank God." His voice is muffled against her hair as he strokes her back. "Lass, where have you been? That was Sheriff Swan on the phone. I've been all over the area looking for you."

"Told you." She laughs weakly, embarrassed. "I'm not Girl Scout material."

His hands rove over her limbs, stopping at her injured knee. "You're hurt. What happened?"

"I stumbled over a tree stump or a branch or something," she says. "It's nothing, really."

"Come," he says, leading her inside and to the sofa. "Sit."

He heads to the bathroom and reappears a moment later with a first aid kit.

"Your leg," she protests when he kneels on the floor in front of her and begins to lay out supplies.

"I'm more concerned about yours," he says, using scissors to cut away the bloody denim covering her knee, careful not to touch her with the blades.

Calloused fingertips whisper against her skin, his dark brow furrowed as he washes the wound with cool, clear water from a basin at his feet.

"These are like the jeans I wore in high school," she says lightly, trying to coax a smile out of him. "Ripped and stained."

"I'm sorry about the phone call, lass," he says, guiding her to stretch and flex her knee. "For chasing you away. Should've told Midas to shove off until tomorrow."

"You didn't chase me away," she lies, inhaling sharply as he dabs ointment on the cut. His warm breath caresses her flesh, soothing the sting. The backs of her knees tingle as she imagines him draping her legs over his shoulders, tasting her…if only feelings could be as easy as sex.

"Besides," she reminds herself aloud, "your work comes first."

He drops the roll of gauze, his eyes burning. "No. No, _you_ come first," he says. "And I'll not let you forget that again."

"Oh." Flustered by his ardent stare and the mental image of his tongue between her thighs, she picks up the gauze and begins stuffing supplies back into the first aid kit.

"Wait," he says, plucking a bandage from her fingers. "I need that." He smooths the dressing against her knee. "There. Perfect."

"You," she blurts out.

"Pardon?" He looks startled.

Two days remain of her fourteen-day deal, and when it comes to Shaw Gold, she has more questions than answers. Is a future between them possible? Are his promises true? If she offers her heart, will it be safe? Or will he break it into jagged pieces?

Squirming under his scrutiny, she takes a deep breath. "In the car earlier, you asked if anyone had ever done anything kind for me," she says. "And the answer is: You. You've been kinder to me than anyone I've ever known. Thank you. For bringing me here. For bandaging my cut. For caring."

"You're welcome," he says, and a new light glimmers in his amber eyes. Lacey isn't sure, but it looks a lot like…hope.

Yes, she has far more questions than answers, but at this moment, only one thing truly matters: the brilliant smile on his face is one she will never forget.

###

 _Now accepting prompts for other "missing" scenes._


	5. Day Six - Gold's Cane

Summary: Gold relives the night Lacey crashed his car.

A/N: Moonlight91 prompted: Gold's reaction to Lacey's accident. This coincided so well with Tumblr's A-Monthly-Rumbelling Prompt "Mr. Gold loses his cane" that I decided to marry the two.

 _ **Day 6 – Thursday**_

Lacey saunters to Gold's leather wingback chair, rolling her hips with every step. Thursday is their long day at the shop—a twelve-hour shift—and now that they're home, Gold looks weary. He's reclined and unguarded, tie draped over the arm of the chair. His blue shirt is open at the collar, revealing a patch of smooth tanned skin. His feet are propped up on the ottoman and his eyes are closed in a rare moment of relaxation. Lacey knows she shouldn't disturb his fragile peace, but she's restless, eager to be near him. He snaps his eyes open and retracts his legs when she moves to straddle his wiry thighs, so Lacey shifts course and settles her rear end on the ottoman. Blinking up at him, she clamps down hard on her lower lip, scraping it with her teeth until the tender flesh becomes plump and red. Lacey isn't book smart or business savvy, but she knows how to use her body to her advantage.

"C'mon, Gold," she urges, tracing his thigh with her fingertips. "It was a long, hard day. Let's go upstairs."

Gold's heavy-lidded gaze dips into her cleavage when she leans across his torso, then hardens in irritation. "Go on up to bed and get some sleep," he says, giving her hand a light push, "you worked all day, too."

 _Here we go again. The gentleman routine._ Lacey blows out a loud, dramatic sigh when Gold pretends to misunderstand her invitation. "Don't play games with me."

"Games? Me?" His laughter is like a caress, tickling her cheek. "Lass, you could own a casino."

"Flattery will get you everywhere." She leans back and crosses her shapely legs—her best feature—and redoubles her efforts. "Gold, I want you. Can't I at least sleep in your bed tonight? It's so lonely in my room all alone."

He smirks. "I'll get you a nightlight."

"What am I, five years old?" she huffs.

"If the stiletto fits," he snaps.

"What exactly is your problem?"

He pinches the bridge of his nose. "I've already told you. While this fourteen-day contract is in place, I will treat you with the respect a lady deserves."

Lacey crosses her arms and scowls. It's not only about the sex. She misses his hands on her body so much that it's a physical ache, but she has no idea how to put that wanting into words.

Gold grabs her hand and laces their fingers together, while his other hand massages the fleshy pad between her thumb and forefinger. At least he's touching her _somewhere_. "Lass, it's not right, what we've been doing. If there are no feelings between us, we shouldn't be together at all."

"You were fine with it before," she mutters, focused on their joined hands.

"I was wrong," he says. "Lacey, my feelings for you are real. And they aren't going away."

"Ah yes. True love." She snorts and looks away from his earnest eyes, blown wide in the firelight.

The doorbell rings, and without waiting for Gold, Lacey rushes to answer it. The door swings wide to reveal Sheriff Swan.

"Ms. French." The sheriff nods and then looks past her, and Lacey turns to see Gold hovering in the living room doorway. "Evening, Shaw," Sheriff Swan says. "So it's been almost a week; are you guys good?"

"Yes, Emma," Gold says. He steps behind Lacey, heat and confidence radiating from his body, and Lacey shivers, despising her body's reaction to his nearness.

Lacey glares at the sheriff. She and Gold are on a first-name basis? _How cozy_. She leans against the doorjamb and drawls, "As you can see, he doesn't have me tied up, Sheriff. No worries."

Emma laughs, her pretty blue eyes twinkling like she's sharing some secret with Gold, and Lacey has the sudden urge to slap her.

"What's so funny?" Lacey asks, gnashing her teeth.

"Oh, believe me, Ms. French—it's clear which one of you has the upper hand in this arrangement." She steps across the threshold and returns her attention to Gold. "Mind if I have a peek around?"

"Be my guest," Gold says, gesturing toward the staircase.

" _Be my guest_." Lacey mimics his solicitous tone under her breath and marches back to the living room. She sprawls on the love seat to sulk as Emma heads upstairs, ostensibly to ransack their belongings.

Two minutes later the young sheriff is back downstairs and breezes back through the foyer and out to her yellow Volkswagen Bug. "Have a good night."

Silence falls over the rambling Victorian when the stained glass door closes behind Emma Swan, and Lacey purses her lips. She doesn't want to crawl into her cold lonely bed—not yet. The visit from the Sheriff has her more than a little disconcerted—ok, jealous—and she knows if she retires now she will only toss and turn.

Lacey studies Gold as he hovers between the foyer and the den. "Tell me about the night I crashed your car. What went through your mind?"

Gold pauses to stand in the living room archway. "Are you certain you want to know?"

Lacey lifts her chin and nods. She's at once sorry she brought it up, but she refuses to be a coward. She cocks her head, prepared to listen.

Gold watches Lacey through hooded eyes, debating about where to begin. The car accident happened less than a week ago, and with it their resulting deal, but Gold feels as though he's lived a lifetime in this house with Lacey. Keeping her at arms' length has required an iron will, but he's convinced himself that by the end of their two weeks, Lacey will understand the depth of his love for her.

Well," he begins, crossing the living room to settle beside her on the love seat. "That was the night I lost my cane."

* * *

 _As usual, Lacey began the evening by refusing his offer of a decent, home-cooked meal. Bowing to her wishes, they consumed two orders of Granny's mediocre lasagna, watched Bones reruns on Netflix, and concluded the evening by making love._

 _Well, he had made love._

 _Lacey prefers to call the act something else entirely. He detests that word—the union of their bodies is no dirty and base thing to be hidden in darkness and cloaked with shame. Holding Lacey in his arms is nothing short of miraculous._

 _The buzzing of his mobile phone against the nightstand wakes him out of a sound sleep. He gropes for the phone, notes the time on the alarm clock—2 a.m.—then stretches toward the right side of the bed. Lacey is gone. The pillow is cold, but still carries the faintest hint of her scent._

 _Nausea wracks his slight frame; he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that the incoming call is regarding her._

" _Hospital?" he growls, jerking up in bed. "She crashed my car into what? Aye, I'll be there as soon as I can."_

 _Gold slumps back against the pillows and covers his face with his hands, a sob tearing from his raw throat._ Don't fall apart now, fool. Lacey needs you.

 _Gold hobbles to the front window, the phone still pressed to his ear. Numb, he stares down at the empty driveway and tries to process Sheriff Swan's words. Lacey had stolen his keys and his car and left him, alone and naked in his bed. He shivers and ties the sash on his robe with shaking fingers. Miss Swan assured him that Lacey had sustained only a mild concussion, but he won't rest until he receives a prognosis from Dr. Whale himself._

 _Anger, annoyance, and worry cycle through his bloodstream as he slips on a pair of slacks and looks for his cane. It's not in its usual spot in the corner, so he digs through his closet for the backup—an ancient wooden number with a plain handle, the finish so worn that he has to position his hand to avoid splinters. Out of habit, he begins to wind a tie around his neck, then allows it to slither to the floor._

 _Once dressed, he makes his way downstairs to wait for Jefferson to take him to the hospital. As he paces on the porch, he dwells on how to fix this. The car can be repaired, the building rebuilt better than new. But this thing he has with Lacey—it was broken before he even realized it existed. While every thought in his brain screamed to run away, his greedy heart ensnared him tighter each day. And so with the last shreds of hope in his heart, he plans their salvation._

 _Headlights flash across the house and he angles down the front steps. The stand-in cane is shorter than his usual one and it causes him to hunch over, accentuating his age and disability in a most humiliating way. The realization that this is how Lacey sees him punches him in the gut; the difference in their ages and his crippled body can't be concealed by money or booze or fancy meals. How could such a beautiful woman, bursting with life, ever love him?_

" _Ok, I'm here," Jefferson grumbles when Gold slips into the passenger seat. "Why are we driving around in the middle of the night?"_

" _We're not 'driving around'; we're going to the hospital."_

" _Again, why?"_

" _Lacey's been hurt."_

" _Lacey the Lush?" Jefferson rubs his eyes. "I know you deal in used goods, Gold, but is she worth it?"_

 _He grits his teeth and flexes his fingers against the cane head, and the splintered surface slices into his palm. The release of blood and pain keeps him from closing his fingers around Jefferson's windpipe. His tone is low and dangerous as he says, "Don't ever call her that again."_

" _Right. Sorry. I'll just drive." Jefferson starts to back out of the driveway, then throws his car into park once more. "Where's your cane?"_

" _Drive."_

" _Yeah."_

 _Gold doesn't speak another word, but tortures himself all the way to Storybrooke General by replaying this evening's declaration love. Love. Love. Love. He groans inwardly, certain his foolish confession has demolished his and Lacey's tenuous relationship._

" _Gold!" A woman's voice calls out as he rushes through the emergency room hallway toward Lacey's semi-private room._

" _Miss Swan, thank you for calling me. I'd like to go see Lacey now," he tells the sheriff, trying to step past her._

 _Emma Swan catches his arm. "She's been sedated," she says, her voice in the dark corridor just above a whisper. "Any idea why she would have stolen your car? And your cane?"_

" _My cane?"_

" _Yeah. Is that thing made of titanium or something?" Sheriff Swan motions toward the nurses' station and retrieves the mahogany stick._

 _Gold can't move for confusion and Emma shakes the cane at him before he regains the presence of mind to close his hand around it._ Why would Lacey…

" _Whatever the reason, it was a good thing she had it," Emma says. "It saved her life."_

 _Gold's sinks onto a slick leather chair outside of triage. Blood pounds in his ears. "Pardon?"_

" _She wasn't wearing a seatbelt, and this was positioned across her lap," Emma says, gesturing at the cane. "It braced between the console and the door on impact, and kept her from flying through the windshield."_

 _Half-listening to the sheriff's explanation, Gold brushes his thumb against the gold handle. Tonight this loathsome cane—his greatest weakness—saved the life of the woman he loves._

" _Will you be pressing charges?" Emma asks._

" _No." He shakes his head, lifting his eyeballs to the ceiling to keep tears from falling. Emma turns away, and he's grateful for the moment of privacy. "I've something else in mind," he croaks._

" _I'm listening," she says, squinting at the selections in the vending machine. A bag of Cheetos drops into the dispenser and Gold's lips quirk upward in a small smile. The sheriff eats like a child._

" _Would you consider a community service arrangement?" he asks._

" _That's all you want? For all these damages?" Emma asks dubiously as she flips through a folder of paperwork, imprinting orange dust on every page._

" _No doubt Lacey will say she prefers the jail time," Gold says dryly, cracking the blinds to peer into her room._

 _When he turns around, Emma is looking at him strangely. "Somehow I doubt that. But visiting hours are over. You can come and collect her tomorrow."_

" _Can I…" his voice splinters, like the surface of his old cane, and he inclines his head toward Lacey's door._

 _Emma nods. "One minute."_

 _Gold tiptoes into the hospital room and gazes at Lacey. Light from the crescent moon streams through the window, illuminating her satin skin, and he feathers the tips of his fingers against a bruise on her cheek. "Good night, lass," he whispers._

* * *

"So that's how I found my cane," he says, swallowing past the lump in his throat as he stares into the firelight. He shifts uncomfortably, afraid to look in her direction. It would not do for Lacey to see how much the car accident had frightened him. No, she knows too much of his soul already.

When he chances a glance at her, Lacey is staring back, her expression filled with wonder and her eyes brimming with unshed tears.

She grabs his hands and yanks him closer, her proximity demanding that he meet her penetrating stare. Wet tracks of tears streak down her face, and he reaches down to knuckle them away. Lacey ducks her head, capturing his lips in a soft, chaste kiss that steals his breath and floods him with warmth.

Lacey releases his mouth and rises, smoothing her skirt with her hands. "You're a good man, Shaw Gold. Good night."

She turns on her heel and pads up the staircase and he stares after her in open-mouthed amazement.

Alone in the dark, he smiles and touches his lips, still tingling from the sweetness of her kiss. Perhaps there is hope for Lacey and him after all.

###


	6. Day Two - Forget Today

**Forget Today**

Summary: Following an accident with Gold's car, Lacey is recovering at his house when she develops a case of amnesia.  
A/N: This is an extra vignette that takes place on Day 2 in the Fourteen Days timeline.

 _Day 2 – Sunday, midmorning_

"Who are you?" Lacey lurches up in bed and scrambles to cover herself, drawing the bedsheets close around her neck. Her eyes are wide and suspicious, as though she doesn't recognize her surroundings.

"What?" Confused, Gold stands in the open doorway of his finest guest room; Lacey's room for the next two weeks. Not an hour ago he'd whisked away her empty bowl of oatmeal and barely sipped glass of orange juice with strict instructions to rest. Despite his attempts to be pleasant, the conversation had been clipped and pouty on her end, but she'd definitely known who he was.

"I'm"—her frightened gaze circles the room wildly—"what am I doing here?" She drags a pillow across her middle, using it as a shield.

Gold approaches the bed with slow, uncertain steps. The floor seems to shift beneath his feet and he leans heavily on his cane to mask his discomfort. "Lacey, it's me. Gold. You had an accident and were in the hospital. You're here at my house recovering." He decides against bringing up their fourteen day community service deal or how she'd stolen his car the other night and smashed it into her apartment building.

"Gold…" She scrunches her pert little nose and eyes him as if trying to puzzle together who he is. The blanket and pillow slip down, revealing an expanse of buttery skin above a misbuttoned midnight blue shirt.

"Yes, Gold." He clears his throat. "You're, ah, wearing my shirt."

She was swimming in the thing, his tiny Lacey. If she were to stand up now, the garment would be hanging around her knees. A current of protectiveness surges through his limbs, making him dizzy.

"Oh, is this yours?" She fingers a sleeve between thumb and forefinger. "Yeah, it's your house, so I guess it is." Her expression is dubious, as though she hadn't spent the past thirty-odd hours recuperating in this bed as he delivered trays of food and fresh reading material. Not that he minds—he loves taking care of his lass.

"Wait…you do look familiar." She waves a triumphant finger toward him, her eyes flaring with recognition. "You've come into the nail salon where I work. You like pedicures."

"That's right." Gold's hands begin to ache and he looks down. His knuckles are white against the head of his cane, and he forces his muscles to relax. He's read about short-term memory loss after accidents. It's not terribly uncommon, especially among patients with head injuries. When she crashed, Lacey hit her head on the steering wheel on impact. At the discharge appointment, Whale mentioned that amnesia, while unlikely, was always a possibility. Gold frowns; he detests setbacks.

"Still doesn't explain what I'm doing here at your house," Lacey says. "So out with it."

Gold lowers his head, wondering how to explain their complicated situation—friends with benefits turned one-sided love affair—but she mistakes his stalling for embarrassment.

"Oh…I see. We fucked last night, hmmm? How was it?" She stretches like a feline, pushing her breasts toward him and her plump lips curl upward in a seductive smile that has him plucking at his trousers. Her lusty smile melts into a frown. "Seriously. I can't remember."

"Ummmm?" Gold hears himself stammer and his cheeks are roasting with mortification. He's foolishly insulted that she's forgotten all the times they had made love. Nothing happened last night—at least not _that—_ and he swore he wouldn't touch her during their fourteen day arrangement, but he's a selfish bastard. He wants Lacey to burn and hunger for his touch, _to want his love_.

"I'll thank you not to use that foul language again." Gold shudders. She knows she hates that word. Except she doesn't know, not at the moment, because she can't remember who the hell he is. He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. Why must everything be so bloody complicated?

"Sorry." She sulks, her lips drawn down in an exaggerated moue, and crosses her arms over her chest.

Gold rotates his shoulders. Lacey pouting—now that is familiar territory. "Tell me about your last memory," he says, clinging to the remnants of his patience.

"Mayor Mills and her sister came into the salon for gel manicures." She pauses, drawing her finger along her full lower lip as she thinks. "It was a good day for tips so I went to the Rabbit Hole, played pool, had a few shots. Leroy and Nottingham got into a brawl and Al kicked them out."

Relieved, he rushes to remind her, "Yes, that was two nights ago—the night of the accident. You beat Clark at pool, we ordered takeout chicken parmesan at the bar, and came back to my house."

"I remember killing Clark at eight ball, but I don't recall seeing you there. Don't think I'd forget a silver fox like you." She lays a hand on his thigh and squeezes, her throaty laugh shooting straight to his groin.

"Nothing wrong with your grip," he says, removing her hand with a whimper.

 _Why does he have to be head-over-heels for this maddening woman?_ She's so determined not to love him that she's conveniently overlooked every intimate moment between them. _He's no more to her than a salon patron. A big tip at the end of twelve-hour shift._ The thought makes him ache with sadness.

Frightened and at a loss, he clambers for the phone on the bedside table and dials the number for the hospital with shaking fingers. It takes eons to make the call and he wishes for his mobile, but it's charging on his desk downstairs. _Stupid, old-fashioned rotary phone_. Gold curses under his breath.

xoxo

As he dials, Lacey smiles innocently and flutters her lashes, delighting in Gold's unease. A simple case of acute amnesia will teach him not to screw around with Lacey French.

Gold makes a mistake with the number and hits the little dial tone button, swearing before he starts again. She pushes her advantage a bit further, dropping her voice to a sultry whisper. "Why don't you come to bed and show me what I've been missing?"

"Not now," he says, his shoulders trembling. He shakes his head furiously and takes a step back. Away from her. "Are you sure?" Lacey pulls at the side of his suit jacket, a long, slow tug meant to disarm and arouse. He's not going to best her at her own game.

Gold remains silent, his deep amber gaze fixed on her face.

"Who are you calling, anyway?" she asks, suddenly alarmed. "I'm not crazy."

"I know that!" he snaps. "I still want Doctor Whale to come out and check on you. A house call is the least that quack can offer."

"Is that the blond doctor with cool blue eyes?" she asks quietly.

"Yes. Why?" He pauses, the receiver cradled on his shoulder.

"I don't like the way he looks at me." Lacey shivers and wraps her arms around herself, fixing her attention on the rocking chair in the corner. It's not an outright lie. Whale _has_ made a pass at her more than once.

Gold clenches his fist around the black receiver and slams the phone down. "I'll find another doctor," he says, raking his hand through his gray-streaked hair. He picks up the telephone for the third time.

"But I don't need…" Lacey snaps her jaw shut; he's already connected with his business manager.

"Dove!" Gold shouts. "Find me the best neurologist on the East Coast. Yes. I don't care what it costs. Fly her in, dammit."

As he barks orders into the phone, Lacey flinches at the puckered lines around his mouth and her heart gives a guilty flip _. So much for a harmless prank._ Yeah, she'd wanted to punish him for concocting this ludicrous scheme—two weeks to convince her they're in love or some such bullshit—but she barely recognizes this jealous, protective, nervous wreck of a man.

Gold sinks to the bed in a hunched-over blob, and Lacey dips her head to peek at his expression. He's not crying, thank God, but she has never seen his faced so pinched and worried. His breath is coming in short bursts and she's definitely never watched him wipe his palms on one of his fancy-ass bespoke suits.

Then again, she's never faked amnesia before, either.

It's a day of many firsts.

When the call ends, he smooths clammy fingertips over her forehead, skating along her hairline and down to her temples. "Does it hurt when I do this, lass?"

Allowing her eyes to drift closed, she moans in pleasure, knowing that he's watching every move. "No, it feels good." She opens her eyes and licks her lips. "Wanna touch me some more?"

In a flash, Gold withdraws his hands and shoves them into his pockets. "How about some Jell-O instead?"

She covers a smile, then widens her eyes and chews her lower lip as if contemplating. "Do I like Jell-O?"

"Everyone likes Jell-O," he says, his voice tight as he rises from the bed. "Come on."

He allows her downstairs for the first time since her arrival here yesterday, settling her on the couch to watch television. Quickly, he builds a fire to chase away the chill in the den. "This is your favorite," he coaxes, flipping on Keeping Up with the Kardashians. Lacey burrows into the corner of the couch and wraps a blanket around her legs. During the commercial break, Gold brings her a large bowl of raspberry gelatin topped with whipped cream.

The treat is cool and sweet and slides down her throat. Gold is rushing around like her personal servant, but she hardens her stubborn heart: this dumb arrangement was his idea. She gives the spoon a thoughtful lick. At this rate, maybe she can get out of working in the pawnshop with him tomorrow. Free labor isn't her style and another day of lounging around his mansion in his dress shirts is a luxury she wouldn't mind getting used to.

Wearing an uneasy smile, Gold brushes a few strands of hair off her forehead and settles into the armchair opposite the sofa to watch over her.

She both loathes and loves his strange behavior, longing to yank him close and push him away all at the same time. His face is open and trusting, like a little boy, eager to please and anxious to see to her every comfort. Every so often he asks her a few simple questions—her middle name, 2+2, her birthday—and beams in approval with each correct answer.

"The doctor should be here by tomorrow," he says, crossing the room to kneel before her and cradle her hand between his large, warm palms. "Don't worry about anything. Your memories will return soon."

Lacey groans inwardly when he turns around to shuffle back to his chair. She's being a horrid, hateful bitch, but she can't bring herself to give up the game just yet.

She returns her attention to the television where the Kardashians have been preempted by the emergency news report of a twenty-car pileup on the interstate. A black Cadillac flashes across the screen, three-and-a-half thousand pounds of steel crumpled like an accordion. Through lowered lashes she peers at Gold, watching him react to each gruesome image in horrified disbelief.

His stricken expression tells her all she needs to know—he's thinking of her accident, and she's overwhelmed with the urge to rush to his side and card her fingers through his silky hair while she whispers assurances into his ear.

Surely the blow to her head is to blame for turning her into a sap, not this impossible, adorable man who is shrewd businessman, worried lover, and hopeful puppy all buttoned into a pristine three-piece suit.

"Lace?" his voice his low, and he remains mesmerized by the television screen.

"Yeah?"

He looks at her then, his eyes haunted. "When you crashed, were you frightened?"

"No." She shakes her head hard, wanting to sooth him. "It happened so fast, Gold. I was lucky."

Their gazes collide as they both realize what she has revealed.

"Indeed." Gold's eyes harden into twin coals, dark and angry.

She gulps and offers a sheepish smile. "I guess my memory's back."

xoxo

Outraged, Gold shoots to his feet. "Do you want to forget this whole thing?" he demands, then reddens at the poor choice of words. He hadn't asked about the accident to trick her into confessing, damn it, he'd been terrified. Even worse, he'd believed her.

"It was a joke, all right?" she says defensively. "I was pissed off about your stupid deal…I thought it would be fun to fake you out."

"Fun? Fun. Fun to drive me insane with worry?" He gestures at her with his cane. "You've a strange sense of humor."

"I guess." She studies her fingernails.

"Listen, Lacey, I care for you. I've made no secret of that. Maybe you don't feel the same, but that doesn't mean you can use my love for you against me." He shivers, feeling stupid and exposed. Nothing scares him more than being irrelevant, forgotten. The woman he loves had pretended not to know him and it hurts more than he thought possible. The past two hours had been among the worst of his entire life.

Miserably she whispers, "I'm sorry. It was a lousy excuse for a laugh. I went too far."

There's agony in the fragile lines around her mouth and eyes. He sighs, not feeling particularly forgiving. But he's promised himself he will be patient with Lacey and earn her trust moment by moment. Hell, their future is riding on this deal, and he doesn't want to give up without a fight.

 _Does she?_

Gold squints at his pocket watch. "No threats, lass: we have twelve-and-a-half days of community service before we reach the end of our arrangement. If you want to leave now, I won't stop you. You can find your own way and a place to stay. Now, do you want to break our deal?"

Sucking in a breath, he hears only the sound of his own heartbeat as he awaits an answer.

"No," she says at last. "I don't." She steps closer and flings her arms around his neck, the surprise impact of her ferocious hug making him stagger. Regaining his balance, he squeezes her waist and she lays her head against his chest with a soft sigh. "I'm sorry," she repeats.

Gold slams his eyes shut and basks in her closeness, her warm, spicy scent enveloping him. It's a mess, this thing they have between them, but it's more real and honest and loving than anything he's had in his whole life. "It's ok," he says, and he means it. When it comes to Lacey, there's nothing he won't forgive.

She pulls back and pokes him in the chest. "Don't expect me to make the rest of this sentence easy on you, though."

He wheezes a laugh. "Naturally not."

It's not even lunchtime, and he's already exhausted. God only knows what the rest of the day will bring, not to mention the next several. One thing is certain, however— the time he spends with Lacey will be anything but boring.

###


End file.
